Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Dr. Hercules wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled sheepishly at Margaret, his Lover, who was standing in the ensuite doorway, shielding her modesty with an origami swan.

"I apologise if I said or did anything to cause you concern," Hercules told her. "I deduce from the scratch marks on my arms that I was having the 'burrowing cockroach' hallucination again."

"You...you said they were trying to get into your veins so they could eat your [gulp] immortal heart!"

Hercules roared. Then he laughed.

"Oh, the grotesque consequences of a psychotropic drug habit! I keep meaning to give the things up, but then I think, no, what if next time I don't have visions of vampiric sandwiches or I don't attempt to ride the neighbour's dog to Spain? Think what I might miss out on!"

“Ah, my dear Captain,” said Hercules, “friend, confidante and subordinate partner in the most successful crime-fighting duo since Cagney and Lacey. How goes it?”

“Poorly, Hercules, poorly,” replied Mustaki. “For you see, there has been a murder!”

“Most foul?”

“Most.”

“Tell me Mustaki, were there any chickens involved?”

“Pardon?”

“Chickens. You know, fowl?”

The Captain’s left moustache drooped. “No,” he said quietly.

“Mustaki," Hercules said sternly, "you need to find yourself a good woman, impregnate her with your moustachioed seed and have her gestate you a sense of humour.” Hercules leapt to his feet, almost knocking Mustaki sideways with his flailing appendage.

"Thank you for the tip, sir," Mustaki said as he watched Hercules dress.

"Well, best be careful or I'll give you the rest," replied Hercules, donning his pince-nez and codpiece.

"Well, by virtue of its being a murder. You know how sensitive I am about that sort of thing."

"And?"

"And, sir," Mustaki paused again, before gulping down the oyster of trepidation and continuing: "and there is also the minor fact that the victim is, well, your exact physical double!"

The house trembled as Hercules hit the floor.

"Bastard floor," he said. "That'll learn you to creak in my presence! Now, Mustaki, what was it you were saying?"

The Captain's right moustache drooped.

"Never mind, sir. However, your inattention reminds me of a story old Grandma Moustakopoulos used to tell on dark nights when the goats were in season and the olive preserves were nervous."

Suddenly the power went out, plunging Hercules and Mustaki into slightly less light than they had been enjoying. Simultaneously there was a scream from downstairs.

"Margaret!" cried Hercules, racing out the bedroom door.

"Hercules!" cried Mustaki, racing out after him.

"Mustaki!" cried Hercules's valet who had all this time been standing silently at the foot of the bed. As the valet began spot-cleaning Hercules's mattress he pondered the fate of his master and his master's faithful servant, Mustaki, of whom his master was also master.

"What adventures they will have!" he remarked, shaking his head and kneeling to better attack a particularly crusty deposit. "What adventures they will have!"

Will the valet's prediction come true? Will Mustaki be allowed to finish his doubtless fascinating Old World folk tale? What is the fate of Margaret? And what of the body, Hercules's mysterious doppelganger? Answers to these questions and others should be sent to the usual address because frankly we're all out of ideas.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Dude, the day’s real boring and you’re feelin’ looseSo you kick back with some mates and make a nooseBut don’t put that piece of rope round your headOr your neck will snap and you’ll be dead dead dead!

Remember: mates don’t hang mates!

It’s Sunday morn and you don’ wanna go to churchYou’re cheesed off with their tired meaning searchBut talk to your priest with his musty old smellBefore you sell your soul to the devil in hell!

Pray safe, stay safe: black rites are wrong!

You’re rollin in the park and you gotta go badSo you skate off home with your bladder goin’ madBut take off those skates after you do your tricksOtherwise you’ll slip on the tiles and break your coccyx.

Be safe, wee safe: bathrooms and roller blades don’t mix

Your folks are away and you’re feelin real coolNothing seems finer than a little alco-hoolBut don’t hook yourself up with a little wee dramOr wake up thinkin’ you got hit by a tram

Watch that scotch! Kids should never drink aged single malt whisky!

Her hair’s real blonde and she seems real swellAnd you like the fact she’s not from Isra-elBut good Jewish boys should never scratch their itchesBy getting’ intimate with those shiksa bitches.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

"Police said they suspect Munis, an avid hunter [who shot his wife with a sniper rifle], could be hiding in the vast, rugged wilderness regions to the west of the city.

Captain Jeff Schulz of the Cheyenne Police Department said police had received no contact from him since the killing."

That's outrageous! Everybody knows the core skill of a great homicide detective is waiting by the phone for the perpetrator to ring.

"Hi, it's me. Yeah, I shot her. No, I don't regret it. Um, OK, I guess, they say it'll be about 28 degrees with a chance of light rain. Yeah, well, the farmer's'll be happy at least. I'm sleeping rough in a ditch, cradling my M-16 and communing with the vengeful spirit of my dead wife so I'm not so crazy about precipitation. OK, same time tomorrow?"

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Bugger the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.I know the end of the world is nigh.I know this, because there's a girl in the office today who has made the decision that it's okay to wear tracksuit pants to work.

Sulphur will rain from the sky. Oceans will boil. And slobs will bring their lack of self-respect to the office in polyester-cotton form.

The Lord Mayor, Clover Moore, is urging Sydneysiders to prepare a "Go Bag" - packed with maps, running shoes, energy bars and even sticky-tape - so they can be ready for any disaster that may strike the city.

For me, the only surprising thing in all this is the baseball cap. One would think in the event of the world ending, or an imminent disaster, you'd want to be wearing something a bit classier than that. Personally, I favour fedoras.

Still, it's a good idea, and for the edification of Snarkeology's wide readership, I have undertaken the task of presenting, extempore, a likely scenario in which the 'Go' bag could be used. If anything, I think that this scenario is too pessimistic, but see for yourselves...

***

MONDAYThank God I am finally able to come out from underneath the table! The bombing has stopped, and I have had time to survey my surroundings. I appear to be trapped in the fallen rubble of the Sydney Opera House: (and what a splendid performance of Tosca I just saw. Who thought that it would have been the last in the world, eh?) I have just completed a survey of the room with my torch. There is a corpse, just opposite me, on the lounge, and a cat lurking on the other side of the room.

Hopefully someone will come to get me out shortly.

Thankfully, as an active citizen, member of the Australian Greens, and supporter of Clover Moore's bid for the Sydney Mayoralty, I have with me my trusty GO Bag! Pith helmet in the case of nuclear fallout, sunblock (well - may not need that down here), a set of keys (mysteriously, I have no idea what they open), four cans of baked beans, and this notepad.

The cat is eyeing the corpse on the couch already. I am going to have to do something about that.

Oh, GOD, when is someone coming to get me out?

MONDAY*Burp*Well, that was satisfying. Incidentally, now I know why cannibals use pots instead of frying pans. Or shishkebabs. I had similar problems frying kangaroo meat once - you see, once I had chopped it up and...

But I'll spare you the details. Anyway, let me just say that it was certainly thoughtful of Clover to suggest we take a set of keys with us - in the absence of knives, they do a surprisingly good job!

In other matters, what day is it? The minutes and hours and days creep by in a desultory fashion, and I have lost all sense of time. Sometimes it seems like merely hours since the bombs started falling; sometimes, years.

The cat is looking at me strangely, now the corpse has gone.I had better turn this torch off. I do not know how long the batteries will last...

MONDAYIs it Monday yet? What time would it be if anyone still had the time? Is anyone who still has the time still alive to give it to me? Who was I used to be? (Only kidding...)

The cat is still staring at me. It has a distinctly obsessed glint in its eyes: I am not altogether sure that we make the best of flatmates. (It reminds me, incidentally, of the time I used to live in a divided warehouse in Newtown. Another flatmate used to look at me in exactly that way - I thought he was gay, but considering the current circumstances, I may have entirely misinterpreted his intentions for me.) Life here has completely gone to seed. I am down to a diet of two baked beans a day: I am not sure how long it will be before someone comes to get me - or even if they do. If they are. If they were...

MONDAYAt last! Monday again! Every time it is Monday, I give myself a treat - three baked beans instead of my usual two. O, what a glorious feast I have then! I have begun to give the cat a bean on every second day in the week. (As I'm not sure where every first day in the week has got to, this works out quite economically). But there are fights. Yesterday, the cat spilled the can of beans and managed to eat quite a number of them before I uprighted it. It becomes harder and harder every day to perform the simplest tasks.

Only one and a half cans of beans between myself and oblivion. I must pace myself...

MONDAYI have lost all sensation in my legs. I find it harder and harder to fend the cat away from the baked bean can: every day is an exhausting struggle. I usually find that waving my hand in its face as fast as possible helps. We are down to seven beans - one for each Monday of the week. I shudder to think of what will happen when...

MONDAYThe cat has begun eating my leg. It kind of tickles.

I can only move my hands and so cannot throw it off. However, thanks to the thoughtfulness of Clover Moore, I am able to record the event for posterity on this notepad. I am sure glad I voted for her?

MONDAYHow long does it take for one under-sized tabby to eat a person's hip?

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Move over lolcats. Because I was too lazy to push my way into this already crowded field, I came up with an innovation so witty, so edgy and yet so gob-smackingly-why-did-no-one-ever-do-this-before obvious, it may just take over the whole internet and end the Iraq war in an afternoon.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

TimT tagged everyone with the 'Eight random things about myself' meme. As that set often includes me, I consider myself tagged and will return fire appropriately.

(1) I am a vast quivering formless omnivorous plant-animal hybrid covering the equivalent of six city blocks.(2) I prefer Grey's Anatomy to House and Gilmore Girls to Sex and the City.(3) I used to really like fairy floss but have gone off it since I've got older.(4) I think I look like Ethan Hawke but talk a little like Ben Stiller (though I'm neither American nor Jewish).(5) I was inadvertantly responsible for the Great Fire of London.(6) Even though I worry about climate change (a lot!) I can't stop using my Honda CR-V all the time because I just love how it handles.(7) I hate waiting in line but hate queue-jumpers even more.(8) I subsumed my last girlfriend, Megan, into my throbbing plasmic mass and have added the remnants of her consciousness to my hive-mind. She still bitches incessantly about my so-called commitment issues *sigh*. I'll have kids when I'm good and ready to inject carnivorous larvae under the dermal membranes of unsuspecting teenage human campers and not a moment before.

So many challenging questions are thrown at us in our working lives – some asked by others, some that we pose ourselves.

For example, this morning, after walking to work past many other people scurrying to their offices, and after stopping to buy toast and coffee in a crowded shop, and after greeting several of my workmates en route to my desk, I asked myself:

Friday, July 6, 2007

[I was walking down the street, whistling and minding my own business, when I saw a car hit a tree and burst into flames. Heroically and without a thought for my own safety, I pulled the driver from the burning wreck which was just seconds away from exploding. She turned out to be J.K. Rowling and in return for my selfless deed she handed me a page from her new book, the final Potter installment, Harry Potter and Deathly Hallows. I present it here for your interest.]In an earlier scene of the uh, movie which hasn't been made yet, Hermione and Harry discuss quidditch tactics when Ron notices a mysterious ghostly sandwich for the first time. Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, Mama Cass Elliot looks on, disgusted at their lack of respect for the new Minister for Magic, Mal Brough (not pictured).

Before Harry could react Voldemort raised his wand and another jet of green light streaked at him, knocking him to the cold flagstones of the crypt.

"You are a fool to defy me, Harry, like your parents were, like Dumbledore was." A dark smirk spread across the Dark Lord's ashen features like a slick of oil. "Only your fate will not be destruction, your fate will be to rule the world at my right hand."

"No!" Harry screamed and dove across the floor towards his wand but Voldemort moved quickly, too quickly.

"Paralytica!" He said and Harry felt something cold brush against his heart. He fell to the stone again, harder this time where he remained, staring upwards, seeing and hearing all. In a twirl of his cloak, Voldemort transformed hismelf into the image of Ron, grinning fiercely in a sickening parody of Harry's friend's true smile.

And then Harry heard a noise which almost stopped his heart. Hermione. He suddenly heard her voice and her careful footsteps. No! Harry screamed within his silent rigid body. No! Get away! That's not Ron! But it was no use, he was unable to make even the smallest sound.

"Oh, Ron," she said. "Ron! I was so afraid that you'd be hurt! And where is Harry?" 'Ron' gestured down at Harry's supine form.

"It's OK, he's just sleeping. Old Voldy must have hit him with some pretty powerful stuff before he went down. Pooped poor Harry out and now he needs a rest. He'll be fine. Here, have something to eat. I bet you haven't eaten since breakfast. You're no good to Harry starving to death, are you? Eat this." Ron/Voldemort produced a strangely glowing sandwich from under his coat which Harry immediately recognised as the fearsome throat-blocking Deathly Hallows sub. No! He screamed silently inside again. No!

'Well I am a little peckish,' Hermione said, tearing delicately at the sandwich with her small incisors. And then it began. The terrible choking which Harry had observed in Hogsmeade. The choking from which there was no return."

Whitman:Draw!Let the wild creatures of the zoo leap, crawl, fly and flee free across your page!Let freedom reign across history's page!Let the ink flow!Let the imagination run free!Let the heart run free!Draw, father!Draw!

I will sit!Sit!While the world turns, this I vow, I will sitSit with all my heart and soul and mind!I will happily sit! - Freely sit! - Sit as a man should sit! - Sit as an American!I will sit proudly, patriotically, stoical, determined, wondrous:And shit happily, joyously, happily!Yes!It will start with a fart and turn into a turd: joyously, happily, joyously!A thing of great beauty!A thing of great life and great beauty!A hymn to creation!But mostly a hymn to shit!

Hallelujah!

William Carlos Williams:This is just to sayI have

Gone to hang a crapIn the dunny.

Forgive me. I wasFarting all morning.

Edward Lear:There was an old man with a penWho drew two larks, an owl and a hen:His son said to him: 'sit,While I go hang a shit,You funny old man with a pen.'

Wordsworth:Oft when, in later years, I pensive scanWith inward eye the creatures of my mind -(The worker ox, the stallion proud and free,The throstle singing in the linden tree -)Then does an innocent come up and declare"I'm going to the dunny, dad, to crap!"

Thursday, July 5, 2007

From my four year old (let's call him Lars Empoli Crittenden for the sake of convenience):

"You draw animals in a zoo while I go and do a poo".

Charming. And it rhymes!

It's even more appealing as a haiku:

"Father draws captiveBeasts while number one son laysShit on porcelain."

I'm now working on a six sonnet series and a performance art piece. Can anybody lend me a zebra and a small quantity of pink-dyed human faeces? Also assistance in filling out the Australia Council grant forms would be appreciated...

Wednesday, July 4, 2007

If you were a horse, my what a horse you would be! Hocks and fetlocks to take one's breath away, and cannon that just wouldn't quit. Your gaskin would be among the great wonders of the world, although I confess I am more of a pastern man myself. Out in the fields, I would stroke your flexor tendons, tickle your stifle, run my fingers lightly along your beautiful withers, slowly, one perfect vertebrae at a time. You would whinny and take some feed, and I would laugh merrily, my lips at your throat latch, my hand upon your poll. What a pair we would make, you and I, if you were a horse.

For my starting post, I thought I might tell you all how I first came to meet all the other members of Snarkeology.

It started sometime in the 18th century, one morning last week. I was sitting at my breakfast table eating a little meal of pince-nez and fob watches marinated in Marsala when Nick came galloping up on a runcible spoon."Who the devil are you?" I said, not realising that, my mouth being half-full of crumbled fob, what I was saying would come out as a half-squeal, half-screech: "Don't hurt me! Women and children first!" An understandable mistake.Anyway, furthermore, and to cut a short story long, Nick threatened to run me through with his lapels if I didn't accompany him forthwith, not to mention straightaway.

As we proceeded along, Nick began to tell me the details of his little scheme: he had begun a group blog, and he would consider himself greatly dishonoured if I could participate. I naturally found myself moved by his tale, and would have complied there and then. But quite suddenly, Nick said this:"What is your opinion on periwigs?""Eh?""Periwigs, sir, periwigs. Do you grow them? What is your opinion on their cultivation?""Only if authentic baroque instrumentation is available", I replied, vaguely.

This conversation ringing ominously in my ears, we arrived at the beach where the cameraman and the other members of Snarkeology had already arrived.Tim, Jo, and Pettstar greeted me with a welcoming chorus of jeers and growls. As I drew nearer to them, they insisted on pressing cups of hot cocoa and bovril on me, even going to the lengths of pouring it over my face and into my trousseaux and dashing the empty cups over my heads. (Something of a faux pas, as in my family, this is never done until after dinner, but I was more than willing to let that slide.)Meanwhile, the cameraman had set up his equipment on the sand. This being the eighteenth century, cameras had not as yet been invented, and so the doughty tradesman had to improvise, which he did, (somewhat in the manner of Ellington.) He set up the rolls of film on long trestle tables, and then proceeded to yodel in an aleatoric manner at them, at a distance of exactly 25 feet, all the time ensuring that we were within hearing distance of his right ear*.

The results, I'm sure you'll agree, were remarkable:

Jo (centre) was attempt to foment revolution amongst Nick (left) and Tim (right), though they were having none of it. Note the beaver, by the way. The beaver is very important.

I'm not actually sure what happened in this picture, but anyway, that's Nick (right) holding me down in the teapot in an effort to intoxicate me. To the left, Frank, the bunny from Donny Darko, has appeared for some reason. Let this serve a lesson to all the little children out there: do not commit dangerous excesses on green tea, and read the Psalms every morning.

These are just a bunch of Satan worshippers who happened to be out for a Sunday stroll at the time. They take a nice picture.

And this is myself (left). I had encountered the beggar on the right drowning in the surf and dragged him out of the high tide with my left ear. He immediately vowed to be eternally in my debt, and now works around my house as a kind of serving man. I call him Saturday**.

It was certainly a capital day, and I look forward to working as closely with each and every member of Snarkeology as the words 'keep away from me!' and 'take a long walk off a short pier' will allow!*I asked him that evening how he filmed a movie, and he replied that it was done in exactly the same fashion in a moving train, so long as the upholstery has been covered thoroughly in mammoth fur. ** I checked with the registrar of names, and apparently Thursday, Friday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were all taken.

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

When I have a cold I like to perform a Haitian voodoo ceremony – hang a chicken upside down, slit its throat, drink its blood and then dance myself into a wild trance-state where I invite various Loas to possess me and hopefully cure my illness. Sometimes it doesn’t work and if it doesn't, well at least you’ve had chicken ‘soup’, just like my mother used to make for me.

If it does work, the downside is that sometimes you wake up six days later on a bulk carrier heading to Indonesia with another man’s blood all over your torso and the taste of cat in your mouth. Or vice versa.